


Day will come that I will mourn you

by hereticpop



Category: SMAP
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Motorcycle Sex, Motorcycles, This has plot, but really it's mostly about motorcycle sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-11-12 14:45:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11164068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hereticpop/pseuds/hereticpop
Summary: A clueless hitchhiker crosses paths with an outlaw biker: there are guns, shots get fired, crazy escapes happen - and someone gets bent over a motorcycle because why else would you have a bike if not for that?





	Day will come that I will mourn you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tsuristyle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsuristyle/gifts).



> what the fuck even.
> 
> this is entirely dedicated to [tsuristyle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tsuristyle) who inspired me with all the crazy amounts of SMAPfic she'd written (which you should absolutely read) and reignited my love for the boys at the time of crisis.
> 
> this was supposed to be a quick PWP ficlet. I don't know what happened. at over 11k words, it's the longest fanfic I've ever posted. it's also probably not what you'd normally expect from me, seeing as it's a total AU, it has some semblance of a plot, and it's probably the least pretentious thing I've written. I honestly can't tell if it's good. it felt like a wild ride, rushing through the first half like possessed in a matter of two days, but my writing was definitely rusty, so I don't know.
> 
> it's heavily inspired by Sons of Anarchy, which is also my main source of knowledge about MC culture (heh). more notes at the end, because I may have been gone for a while, but I've never stopped rambling on and on.
> 
> also yeah, warnings: contains violence, including guns and death of unimportant secondary OCs. also explicit sex, which, while consensual, is majorly underdiscussed.
> 
> the title is paraphrased from RHCP's Dani California.  
> this fic is absolutely trashy and proudly so.

He came from the west. In blinding sun, deafening roar of the engine, he could’ve been something that came from the sky. He wasn’t. The worn leather of his vest, of the gloves on his hands, boots on his feet, was as earthly as dirt. The big black motorcycle didn’t seem half as menacing in the parking space of the run-down gas station. The man took his helmet off and looked around.

Tsuyoshi didn’t realize he was holding his breath until he felt slightly dizzy. He inhaled deeply then, wishing himself invisible and not like he’d been staring at all. The man on the Harley was definitely looking at him. Tsuyoshi shrugged his shoulders and tried to look busy staring at the dust on his sneakers.

It didn’t seem to work. In a moment, he heard approaching footsteps. Seated on a concrete block near the edge of the parking lot, he needed to look up, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand. The biker walked up with a swagger, frowning at Tsuyoshi from behind his sunglasses.

“You work here?” he asked.

“No,” Tsuyoshi shook his head. “Just waiting for my ride.”

“Seen the men from that car?” He pointed towards the red BMW, the only other vehicle parked at the station.

“Yeah. They went behind the store.”

The man looked around again, scanning the surroundings as if he was searching for something in particular – or committing every detail to memory. There was something restless about him, like an itch or anticipation. It made Tsuyoshi nervous in a way he couldn’t quite grasp.

“How many?” the man asked.

“What?” 

“How many men went there?”

That was when Tsuyoshi got a bad feeling about this.

“Uhm...”

The men from the car looked like thugs. Tsuyoshi had been camped at the station for a good hour, tired after walking all morning. No cars had stopped for him, no matter how desperately he’d been waving. He hadn’t had any more luck at the gas station. Even so, when he saw the men getting out of the BMW, he quickly decided against asking them for a lift.

It might’ve had something to do with the handle of a gun sticking out from one of the men’s waistband.

And the biker – Tsuyoshi hadn’t missed the patches on his vest, the colors of his motorcycle club. He wasn’t that well-versed in outlaw culture, but he’d heard the rumors. He’d seen them too, ride through the town like kings, and the sort of bloody things that tended to follow. He knew it was bad news.

“How. Many,” the man repeated, loud and clear. There was something around his jaw now, in the curve of his mouth: angry and amused at the same time.

Tsuyoshi swallowed. His throat was oddly dry.

“Two from the car. One guy was waiting for them here.”

“Okay.” The man glanced around before looking back down at Tsuyoshi again. “You might wanna get the hell out of here.” With that, he turned on his heel and walked away, heading unmistakably towards the back of the store.

Tsuyoshi sighed. He picked up his backpack from the ground and took out a bottle of water to gulp down half of it in one go. He then dug out his phone. The battery had died. He could go inside the store to charge it. Although it wasn’t like he had anyone to call. Or he could just hit the road again and hopefully hitch a ride before the end of the day. This was definitely not a good place. For anything.

He didn’t move an inch.

He was still clutching his phone when he heard raised voices, arguing, shouting, then abrupt silence. He was listening carefully now, almost hearing the seconds tick by inside his head, one, two three.

And then shots. One, two. Three.

A scream and running and it was like time slowed down and the air was thick like grease. Tsuyoshi saw a man, the driver of the red car, rushing from behind the corner of the store building, gun in his hand, his mouth moving but not making any sound. The biker followed and the man turned around and pointed the gun at him.

Four.

He missed, a shout from another direction drew his attention away. Both the man with the gun and Tsuyoshi turned their heads towards the entrance to the store, where the cashier had run out and stood frozen now, eyes wide in shock.

Five. Tsuyoshi didn’t even see him pull the trigger. He was still staring helplessly at the cashier, who suddenly went limp and fell to the ground.

Six.

The biker was still pointing his own gun at the gunman’s body lying on the asphalt, as he walked up to him, right until he was standing directly above him.

Seven, eight, nine.

Now that seemed completely unnecessary.

The silence after that was unbearable. Tsuyoshi felt suddenly lightheaded and like maybe he was going to puke. He leaned forward and closed his eyes.

“Hey, you!”

Breathe in. Breathe out.

“Drop that phone!”

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

He looked up again to see the biker aiming his gun at him now, approaching slowly. His previous swaggering manner was gone; he threaded softly like a cat, watching Tsuyoshi with alert eyes. Tsuyoshi didn’t quite understand what was happening, until he remembered the phone in his hands and how it might look as if he was going to call the police.

“It’s dead. The battery. It doesn’t work. See?” he shouted back, holding up the phone, even if there was no way the man would be able to check it for himself from the distance. “I’m dropping it now.”

The biker didn’t lower the gun, but he quickened his pace, frowning again like a man with a dilemma. He barely spared the phone a glance before stepping onto it with the heel of his boot, successfully crushing it into pieces.

“Did you really have to...” Tsuyoshi started but was abruptly cut off by the biker who grabbed his arm and jerked him up to his feet.

“I told you to get the fuck out of here. You might just do that now, if you weren’t compelled before,” he gritted through his teeth. “Your ride gonna get here soon?”

Tsuyoshi bit his lip.

“I lied,” he admitted, not quite looking at the man. He couldn’t read his expression behind the sunglasses anyway and it freaked him out more. “I’m not waiting for anyone.”

The man cursed.

Then they both heard it.

Like a rolling thunder fronting a storm, a rumble of multiple engines echoed from a distance, growing and growing steadily into ominous growl that Tsuyoshi would swear he could _feel_ vibrating in some hollow space inside his rib cage. He could imagine it to be the voice of an animal, a beast so huge it would be casting shadow on the road long before it got near.

The biker’s face looked as if he’d seen that beast before.

“Fuck. Fucking… Shit. Come on!” he shouted, putting the gun back into its holster on the inside of his vest, and darted towards his bike. Confused, Tsuyoshi slung his backpack over his shoulder and ran after him.

“What the hell is going on?” he asked.

The biker was already straddling the motorcycle and he thrust his helmet at Tsuyoshi.

“Get on,” he barked with no further explanation.

“What?”

“Get on the bike!”

“Why?”

“These?” he pointed towards the dead body of the BMW driver on the ground. “These were bad guys. And there are more of them coming this way. They’re not going to ask you questions. So either get on the fucking bike or stay here and wait to get shot.”

Tsuyoshi got on the bike.

 

He had ridden a motorcycle before, but never like this.

This was life or death and it felt like it. The wind felt like fire on his skin, the noise made him deaf, he could barely keep his eyes open. Feeling the mechanical power under him with a human body pressed to his chest was almost arousing, and he’d swear he could taste the speed in his mouth, on his tongue, electric and sour. His stomach was flipping at first as they were gaining speed, then it settled and he started to enjoy the mad ride. He even whooped excitedly, at which the biker seemed to shake his head, whipping Tsuyoshi in the face with his ponytail.

Then, after they took a turn at full speed that nearly sent Tsuyoshi flying off the bike, he caught a glimpse of the rear-view mirror and his heart sank. There was a whole column of black motorcycles following them, the riders all clad in black leather, but somehow he didn’t think they were friends. More like ghost riders, the Wild Hunt, smelling fear and guilt like it was blood. Tsuyoshi almost didn’t believe they were real. But he could tell the biker saw them too, by the way his grip on the handles tightened and he shifted slightly, accelerating.

“Are they going to kill us?” Tsuyoshi shouted over the noise of the engine.

“Not if they can’t catch us!” the man replied. “Hold on!”

The next moments were something that Tsuyoshi would later remember like a dream. Blurry on the details, not real, a collection of disjointed impressions: roaring, shouting, a burn in his throat, an ache in his limbs, a fear so surreal that it felt like ecstasy. Logically he must’ve thought he was going to die, but he would only have the memory of being the most alive he’d ever been.

They kept gaining speed until it didn’t seem possible to go any faster. Tsuyoshi had no idea anymore if they were still being followed. It occurred to him, like a flash that came and went, that he didn’t know anything about the man riding the motorcycle, what he was capable of – other than shooting people dead – and yet Tsuyoshi’s life depended on him and only him and his skill.

Tsuyoshi might’ve closed his eyes at some point. He wouldn’t remember.

He didn’t know how the man managed to see it – everything was moving too fast for Tsuyoshi to see anything – but there was an opening between the bushes on the side of the road. It happened just like that, one moment they were rushing down the road about to break their necks, the next the man shouted something that Tsuyoshi didn’t hear and swerved off the road, in between the bushes, down the narrow path that emerged all of a sudden like a miracle.

Or like a death trap. Now, Tsuyoshi was sure they weren’t going to survive.

He screamed when the bike started jolting down the bumpy path, but his voice was lost in the noise. They continued, keeping balance through sheer momentum, up to the line of trees, where the final jump knocked the bike onto its side, sending it gliding on the ground for several feet further, while they were both thrown off. Tsuyoshi didn’t even have the time to brace himself for the impact. He just hit the dirt, rolled over, and that was it.

He didn’t know when it got silent. The bike might have still been running for a moment longer, or it was just phantom engine in Tsuyoshi’s head. He was lying on his side and he was breathing. That was the first thing he realized when the initial shock started to fade away. So he was alive. Everything seemed to hurt, but at least he could feel all his limbs; that meant he still had them. Slowly, he started to move. More hurt, nausea, but he didn’t think he had broken anything. He wasn’t sure he wanted to get up yet, though.

“Well, fuck me sideways. That was something,” he heard on his right. He made the effort to sit up.

The biker was pulling himself to his feet, dusting off his jeans. He took off his sunglasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“You okay there?” he asked Tsuyoshi, walking up to him.

“Yeah… I think so,” Tsuyoshi managed to rasp out.

“Glad you had the helmet on, aren’t ya,” the man said, knocking with his knuckles on Tsuyoshi’s helmet-covered head. It was the man’s helmet that he’d given to Tsuyoshi and wasn’t wearing one himself as a result. Tsuyoshi didn’t even know what to say about that, so he kept quiet.

He watched the man go over to his bike and examine it for damage. He didn’t seem too concerned, so Tsuyoshi took that for a good sign. But when the biker tried to pull the machine up into a standing position, he unexpectedly hissed and dropped it. He looked at his left arm with a frown, as if it offended him, then just slid to the ground and sat leaning against the motorcycle, face turned towards the sky and eyes closed.

Tsuyoshi finally forced himself to get up. He still felt a bit weak in the knees, but after a couple of steps he got steadier. At least he didn’t feel like he was going to faint anymore.

He crouched in front of the biker, unbuckling the helmet and dropping it onto the ground.

There was a patch of bloody red on the biker’s left sleeve, above his elbow; bigger, darker stains that had dried up already, and fresher, brighter ones in the middle. Like a flower, a watercolor painting of a flower, a tear in the fabric right across.

“You’re hurt,” Tsuyoshi said.

“It’s no big deal. That scum at the station shot me,” the man replied, opening his eyes. He looked at Tsuyoshi curiously, searching.

It was a number of things: the sudden face-to-face proximity, the man bringing up the incident from the gas station that Tsuyoshi really didn’t want to think about. The fact that they’d just escaped death, together, literally holding on to each other. And maybe also the insignificant observation Tsuyoshi had subconsciously made earlier and was now gradually more and more aware of, that the man was really, _really_ attractive. It all made him feel intimidated and vulnerable, being looked at like that. He didn’t want the man to know that, and yet was sure that it was clear in his face, just short of written out in bold letters on his forehead.

He tried to focus on the man’s wound and on helping him. He didn’t even question why he wanted to do that, considering the man was a criminal and he wasn’t exactly dying in Tsuyoshi’s arms, either.

“Take off your shirt,” Tsuyoshi said, settling on the ground on the man’s left.

The man broke into a grin.

“Normally I’d expect you to ask me to dinner first...” he said with barely a hint of mockery in his voice, which somehow made it even more mortifying.

Tsuyoshi blushed like mad. “I just wanted to look at your wound, see if it’s serious,” he hurried to explain. “I didn’t mean anything...”

“Relax,” the man cut him off. “I was kidding.” But he was still smirking. “I definitely don’t expect dinner first,” he added with a wink and moved to shrug off his leather vest, while Tsuyoshi stared with an open mouth.

Many people had told Tsuyoshi that he was naïve and oblivious, and yet he was the only one who knew the true extent of that. He kept learning things the hard way and then making the same mistakes again. He kept putting his foot in his mouth like it belonged there, realizing he was on the course towards disaster and yet continuing with a stubbornness worthy of a better cause. He wasn’t one to make sharp observations. His observations usually came long after, too late to even feel bitter.

But one thing he knew to be a fact of life was not to ever hit on men like this one. There was no way it would end well, and a hundred ways in which it would end badly, to varying degrees. Men who looked like sex, men who smirked confidently no matter the dire circumstances, who walked like they owned the earth and looked at you like they could drown you – they had nothing to want from Tsuyoshi. And they had everything Tsuyoshi could want.

And that didn’t even include men who killed people and rode motorcycles like maniacs. Those, Tsuyoshi had no idea what they could want.

So he didn’t think the man was flirting with him. He probably wasn’t even attracted to men, he was just mocking him, especially if Tsuyoshi was as transparent as he assumed himself to be. He could deal with that. It could’ve been worse, a violent and bloody kind of worse.

“I’m Tsuyoshi, by the way,” Tsuyoshi said, watching him fold his leather and lay it down on a patch of grass.

The man hesitated, undoing the first button of his plaid shirt.

“Kimura,” he finally said, and looked startled when he was met with Tsuyoshi’s friendly smile.

In a moment Tsuyoshi wasn’t smiling anymore, though. The temporary silence was broken by the sound of coming engines. Tsuyoshi looked around nervously, but they were too far away from the main road, hidden behind foliage. He almost jumped in surprise when he felt a warm grip on his wrist. Kimura – whether that was his real name or not – held Tsuyoshi tightly, pulling him close.

“Don’t move,” he hissed. “Quiet.”

They waited, the sound growing louder. The only way they could be found was if the men chasing them saw the tire track on the path. That, and they’d have to believe that anyone in their right mind had attempted riding that way.

It occurred to Tsuyoshi that Kimura might be completely mad.

And then the sound was growing distant again, quieting down.

Tsuyoshi looked at the other man with wide eyes, still too afraid to breathe out with relief.

Kimura grinned. “We did it,” he declared, unceremoniously letting go of Tsuyoshi’s arm. “You wanna stare at my naked body now?” he asked, going back to unbuttoning his shirt as if nothing had happened.

Tsuyoshi fell back to the ground, deciding he wasn’t getting up anytime today. Or anytime this century, for that matter.

 

The wound wasn’t life-threatening, but it needed stitches.

“You need stitches,” Tsuyoshi announced, after examining it thoroughly and pretending he wasn’t stealing glances at the rest of the naked skin he was presented with, the smooth collarbone that just seemed so lickable, and the brown nipple. Also immensely lickable.

He was so screwed.

Kimura hadn’t even taken his shirt completely off, just shrugged off the left sleeve. He sat there, some strands of his long, bleached rather than sun-bleached hair falling onto his face. He seemed annoyed by Tsuyoshi’s serious concern.

“Unless you’re gonna tell me that you’re a medical professional, tough luck. ‘Cause hospitals tend to get funny about bullet wounds, if you know what I mean.”

“Uhm...” Tsuyoshi scratched his head, hesitating.

“What?” Kimura looked at him with focus, finally losing the sarcastic flair. “Are you a doctor or something?”

“Kind of.”

“What does that mean?”

“...I’m a trained veterinarian.”

A beat of silence followed, and then suddenly Kimura was laughing, loud and unguarded, so unlike everything about him so far that Tsuyoshi was awed, completely swept away. Kimura had this incongruous effect on him, uprooting his priorities and crippling his instincts. Tsuyoshi was able to instantly dismiss the whole nightmare he’d just been put through – by the very man who was sitting with him laughing right now. It scared him, yes, but it excited him more.

“I could patch you up, but I’d need some supplies,” he went on to say when Kimura calmed down again.

“Know what? I can get you supplies. But you’d need to come with me.” That look again, searching, questioning, making Tsuyoshi increasingly frustrated. If only he knew what the man was looking for. “Do you really have nowhere to be?”

Tsuyoshi shrugged.

“I’m hitch-hiking. Just going on a trip, figuring some things for myself, you know… I graduated last month but I didn’t feel like I had a direction, so...”

“Wait,” Kimura blinked, registering that information. “So you’re basically a student? You haven’t actually worked as a vet?”

“I did some internships!” Tsuyoshi protested. “I gave stitches to a cow! You can’t be more difficult than that.”

“Oh trust me. I can be plenty difficult,” Kimura said, voice dropping to the fatal register of velvet and honey. “If you ask nicely.”

He was definitely not flirting. That was not what was going on there.

Tsuyoshi shook it off.

“I have some basic first aid stuff in my backpack,” he said. “I’ll put bandage on this for now, and we can go.”

 

Kimura was standing, buttoning up his shirt, a cigarette between his lips. Tsuyoshi wondered how much time they’d spent here. He’d lost his watch a couple of days earlier, and now that Kimura had destroyed his phone, he couldn’t even check the time. It seemed like a small inconvenience, though. He found himself quite calm about not having any sort of device on him. Relieved, even, as if he’d been freed from some sort of obligation.

“Just a sec,” Kimura mouthed around the cigarette. “I need to piss.”

He had the decency to walk away towards a neighboring tree. Not wanting to stare, Tsuyoshi turned towards the motorcycle, still lying on its side on the ground.

He dropped his backpack and bent to grab the bike. Heavy as it was, he managed to lift it off the ground and he was halfway up to moving it into upright position, when he heard Kimura yelling, “Don’t fucking touch my bike!”

Tsuyoshi froze, unsure of what that was about. His arms shook and he was going to drop the beast again, probably on his foot, when Kimura came running and took over, finally getting the motorcycle to stand on its own. He was still very close, and suddenly he pressed himself against Tsuyoshi, chest to back, hips to ass, chin on Tsuyoshi’s shoulder.

“Don’t. Ever. Touch my bike. Without permission,” he whispered, once again in that seductive voice, but it was obviously taunting now. Tsuyoshi shivered and Kimura let go, not bothering to comment on that reaction.

“But I sat on it? I rode with you?” Tsuyoshi turned around, staring incredulously at Kimura, who was nonchalantly pulling his leather gloves on.

“Yeah,” he said, looking up. “And you’ll only _sit on it_ when I tell you to.”

Their eyes met and it felt like something was going to catch fire from the sparks. Tsuyoshi found himself unable to find words, his defiance struggling with desire to submit. He wasn’t afraid of Kimura in the sense of his gun and violence.

(He was afraid, although he didn’t quite realize that at the time, of what else there was, hidden between the lines, calling to him: a promise of a different world, recklessness and risk, and the kind of passion that could slowly smother him, steal away his oxygen, leave him with an echo of laughter and the sound of an engine.)

But he started to believe in the possibility that it wasn’t just a game, that Kimura meant to do exactly what he was doing. Tsuyoshi wanted to tell him to drop it. To take him, right there and then, on the ground, any way he wanted because Tsuyoshi was ready to do anything; or just stop, stop teasing him, stop throwing these words at him like it was easy. And he could tell that Kimura was waiting for him to say something, even if he wasn’t sure what it was.

Tsuyoshi was the first one to look away.

“Okay,” he heard Kimura say, “you can touch my bike now.”

“What?”

“I’m gonna need help getting it back on the road. We’re definitely not riding this way again.”

Tsuyoshi breathed a private sigh of relief. If he were to get on the bike now, he was sure he’d be pressing a considerable hard-on against Kimura’s ass. At least pushing the heavy machine through grass and dirt was going to kill _that_ problem.

 

This time, he really enjoyed the ride.

Judging from the sun, it was late afternoon. The wind felt good on his skin and the speed was enough to make him feel like flying but not enough to make his life flash in front of his eyes – save for those moments when Kimura sped up on purpose, probably trying to scare him, judging by the laugh he let out when Tsuyoshi squeaked this one time on a sharp turn. 

He was gripping Kimura’s waist and well, this was one aspect of riding that he didn’t have the time to consider before. It felt intimate, in a comfortable way, and he really had to keep his mind from wandering. He even tried to find a different way of sitting, maybe if he leaned back, or held onto something else, until Kimura yelled at him to stop fidgeting if he didn’t want them to crash. Tsuyoshi resigned himself to squeezing the motorcycle with his legs occasionally so that he wouldn’t slide into Kimura’s back.

He shifted to the left again when he got smacked in the face with Kimura’s long hair and caught a glimpse of his injured arm. The sleeve of his shirt was bulged in the place where he had the bandage underneath and, shit. Tsuyoshi could swear there were fresh blood stains on the fabric. He leaned forward again.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Why?” came Kimura’s confused reply.

“I think your arm is bleeding again.”

“I’m fine!”

But he sped up again after that, and Tsuyoshi wondered if it wasn’t so much to scare him, as it was Kimura trying to get to their destination as quickly as possible.

“Do you want to switch?” Tsuyoshi tried asking after a moment. “I have a motorcycle license, you know.”

“I don’t switch,” was the answer, which, in hindsight, Tsuyoshi might’ve expected. “And which part of _don’t touch my bike_ did you not understand?”

Tsuyoshi shook his head and decided not to argue the logic of that. Shouting into someone’s ear on a vehicle moving at high speed didn’t make for the best conversational environment.

Thankfully, it wasn’t much later when they reached an exit from the road that led them to a wide parking lot next to a roadside bar. There were a couple of motorcycles parked there already. Kimura went to the furthest corner and killed the engine. Tsuyoshi looked around. The bar was a rather big building, the walls painted black with colorful graffiti in a few spots. _The Black Rabbit_ said the neon sign, and next to the letters, there was indeed something that might be a rabbit, Tsuyoshi guessed, its red eyes glowing faintly in the daylight.

“Get off,” Kimura urged him.

“Are we getting medical supplies from a bar?”

“My friend runs this place. He’s very resourceful.”

 

The inside of the bar was dark, mostly covered in wood, with black and red color scheme. The couple of men sitting at random tables were all bikers, in leather vests, although, Tsuyoshi noticed, their patches were different. So this wasn’t a clubhouse, or at least not Kimura’s clubhouse. Some of the men greeted Kimura, shouting when he appeared in the doorway and raising their glasses at him. Kimura nodded, returning the greetings, but he made a beeline for the tall blond man behind the bar, who grinned at them, straightening up from where he was huddled over a sketchbook.

“Kimura,” he said. “And you’ve got a new boy toy?”

Kimura rolled his eyes. “Like you’re one to talk.”

“Please don’t cheapen my relationship, it’s a beautiful, pure thing.”

Kimura flashed his teeth in a grin of his own. “I’ve been there, remember? I know exactly how _pure_ he is.”

Tsuyoshi, who was initially rather indignant at being referred to as a boy toy, stopped even trying to make sense of the conversation. Then the bartender noticed Kimura’s arm, the sleeve halfway soaked in blood by now, and stopped grinning.

“Shit. You okay?” he asked seriously.

“Yeah, this is actually why I’m here. I need a couple of stitches. He,” Kimura pointed towards Tsuyoshi with his thumb, “is here to help with that. Tsuyoshi. Tsuyoshi, this is Shingo.”

Shingo just stared at him with curiosity but didn’t say anything, so Tsuyoshi gave him an awkward wave. To his surprise, Shingo waved back before turning back to Kimura.

“I’ve got everything you need in the back room. Through the door and to the left… You know your way around, right?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“You want a drink?”

“Hell yeah.”

Shingo put a glass down on the counter.

“Uh, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Tsuyoshi chimed in.

Shingo looked up at him sharply.

“I’ve got everything you need except for anesthetics,” he said. “So he’s getting that drink. You, on the other hand, aren’t getting a drop of booze until he’s all nice and patched up.”

Tsuyoshi wasn’t going to argue with that.

 

Kimura leaned back in the chair, taking a drag of the cigarette. It was his fourth or fifth one. Tsuyoshi really didn’t need to breathe in all the second-hand smoke while he was working, but he hadn’t said a word about that. The whole procedure had been nerve-wracking already.

“All done,” he said, patting Kimura on the elbow.

“Wow,” Kimura glanced at the fresh bandage. “Thanks.” He sounded groggy.

He’d complained about everything at first, questioning Tsuyoshi’s abilities, until Tsuyoshi snapped at him, “I don’t have to do this, you know? So if you don’t want me to, just say it.” After that Kimura shut up and chain-smoked in concentration, forehead glistening with sweat. Tsuyoshi sweated like crazy himself, wiping at his face clumsily with his arm. He wasn’t even bothered by Kimura’s lack of shirt this time.

Kimura stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray and glanced at Tsuyoshi as if he was expecting him to do something. Tsuyoshi had no idea what that was.

“So… What are you going to do now?”

Ah. That was something Tsuyoshi hadn’t thought about since morning. Too busy running for his life, almost dying in a motorcycle accident and providing health services to a known killer. And the thing was, he didn’t even think of Kimura as a killer. There was that horrible memory of gunshots and seeing a man drop to the ground, but it felt like another lifetime, or something he’d seen in a movie, not in person. And then there was Kimura that he’d ridden the bike with, suffered his innuendos and taken care of his injury, and he didn’t seem like a bad person. Kimura, who could’ve easily killed him too, just shot him point-blank in the head, gotten rid of the only witness, but he’d saved him instead. Tsuyoshi had a hard time trying to consolidate these pieces of what had become his reality.

“I don’t know. I haven’t thought about… I’ve been going east, so if you can point me in the right direction...”

“Hey,” Kimura cut through his stream of stuttering consciousness. “You can stay the night here. Shingo has an apartment upstairs and there are a couple of spare rooms. He won’t mind. I mean, it’s getting late and you might not be able to get a ride before it gets dark. Or,” he added after a second, probably seeing the conflict in Tsuyoshi’s face, “I can get someone to give you a ride to the nearest town, if you’d rather find a hostel or something.”

“You’re not scared that I’m going to call the cops on you?”

“Well, you don’t have a phone,” Kimura pointed out with a grin. “And… I guess you could’ve done that already if you wanted to. You didn’t need to come here with me.”

Tsuyoshi frowned.

“Does that make me an accessory to a crime?” he asked.

“I think so? But if anyone asks, you can just say that I made you do it at gunpoint. I won’t mind.”

Tsuyoshi shook his head and stared at the mess on the table, pieces of bloody gauze, discarded gloves; he needed to clean that, he needed to stop thinking. Or _start_ thinking.

“What are you going to do?” he asked before he could think better of it.

Kimura pouted. “I need to get back to my club, but… Maybe they’ll survive without me ‘til tomorrow,” he winked.

Tsuyoshi wasn’t sure if that meant he was going to stay at the bar as well, but he felt too shy to ask, paranoid that Kimura would discern an intention in that question.

Kimura’s clothes were lying on another chair, his shirt and his vest. Absentmindedly, Tsuyoshi reached for the leather. It was well-worn, the patches fraying on some edges, obviously repaired a couple of times. Tsuyoshi was curious about it, what it all stood for. Maybe if he could understand better where Kimura was coming from…

“Don’t touch my cut,” Kimura warned in that same tone of voice that Tsuyoshi had heard a couple of times already, both angry and amused. He still wasn’t sure if Kimura was serious about it.

He looked from the vest – the cut, Kimura’d called it – to the man sitting in front of him, and back.

“You’re awfully possessive,” he commented.

And there it was again, the smirk and the dark look that wanted to swallow him. Kimura leaned forward, one hand on the armrest of Tsuyoshi’s chair. He had tattoos on both forearms and on the right side of his ribs, mostly black and gray with just a splash of color here and there. Tsuyoshi had tried not to stare, but he had an urge to trace the patterns with his fingers like he could learn them this way.

“Yeah,” Kimura said. “I am.”

“I’m sorry, I...” Tsuyoshi stuttered out but he didn’t know what he wanted to say. His mind was blank, his breathing shallow.

“Don’t be.”

Kimura was standing now, bending down and bracing himself with both arms on Tsuyoshi’s chair. He paused, maybe hesitating, or giving Tsuyoshi a moment to decide if he wanted to push him away.

Tsuyoshi didn’t move.

Kimura tasted viciously of cigarettes, which didn’t matter one bit. But he was kissing Tsuyoshi slowly and that was unlike anything Tsuyoshi had expected, not ravishing or demanding, but calming and safe. Tsuyoshi tilted his face up and Kimura raised one hand to run his fingers through Tsuyoshi’s hair, making Tsuyoshi gasp with something that suddenly gripped him inside his chest and didn’t want to let go. He wanted to put his hands on Kimura, reading this as the long-awaited permission to _touch_ his skin, and yet the only thing his body seemed capable of was kiss back.

With Kimura standing between his legs, he kept spreading his thighs wider, indicating the invitation that he wasn’t able to choke out in words. He wanted Kimura pressed close to him, pressed into him, he wanted to feel him everywhere. His lips were surprisingly soft. And he was so good, kissing Tsuyoshi in just the right way, keeping to that edge between too much and not enough that made Tsuyoshi want to beg for more. Tsuyoshi was not in control of anything and he just didn’t care.

It ended with less warning than it’d started.

Last lingering press of lips and Kimura was straightening up, looking at Tsuyoshi with a self-satisfied smile. Tsuyoshi was catching his breath, waiting for a cue.

Kimura just stepped back and stretched lazily, making Tsuyoshi’s mouth dry.

Then he picked up his clothes.

“I think I’m going to take a shower,” he said.

Tsuyoshi blinked.

“Is that...” he started uncertainly.

“Not an invitation.”

“Oh. Okay.” Tsuyoshi kept staring, trying to catch a single thread of the knot of thoughts rolling through his mind, and failing hard. “Don’t get your bandages wet,” he dutifully warned in a voice that wasn’t his own.

 

“Dear friend,” Shingo said loudly, after contemplating Tsuyoshi with a deep frown for a good minute, “you look like you want a beer.”

Tsuyoshi plopped down on a stool at the bar.

“Yes. Please.”

“On the house,” Shingo opened a bottle and placed it in front of him.

At least the beer tasted as good as only cold beer on a messed up day could.

“You staying for dinner? I’m making steak.”

“I don’t know...” Tsuyoshi trailed off, and that was when his stomach growled, as though suddenly reminded of the existence of food and that Tsuyoshi hadn’t had any since the early morning. “Yeah, I’m staying. If you don’t mind. Kimura said I can sleep here, too?”

Shingo huffed, but there was a smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. He had a funny mouth. Not as mesmerizing as Kimura’s, but Tsuyoshi found himself quite distracted by the different expressions it took.

“If he’d told you there was only one spare bed and you two needed to share, he was lying.”

That made Tsuyoshi blush, although he didn’t even have a reason. It was obvious Shingo wasn’t judging and if he was mocking anyone, it was most likely Kimura.

“No, he… He didn’t even say if he was staying here too.”

“I’m pretty sure he is,” Shingo muttered under his breath.

He went back to wiping clean glasses and putting them away. Some of the men from the bar were gone now, only one table still occupied. It was fairly quiet. Tsuyoshi found himself spacing out, staring at Shingo’s arms, both of them covered in full tattoo sleeves. They were different than Kimura’s, abstract patterns in vivid colors that left no bare skin. They weren’t exactly psychedelic, but the more Tsuyoshi stared, the more he found himself seeing.

Shingo’s sketchbook was lying off to the side where he’d previously left it, opened on an unfinished page. Tsuyoshi caught a glimpse of it and reached for it curiously, almost knocking down his beer. Shingo sent him a glare, but didn’t protest.

The pictures in the sketchbook were similar to his tattoos, same style of lines and color schemes.

“Did you do them yourself?” Tsuyoshi asked in awe.

“I designed them. I only inked some of these myself,” Shingo pointed to his left forearm. “Perhaps it’s not clear, but I’m not an octopus.”

The dry remark was far from enough to dismay Tsuyoshi.

“So you’re a tattoo artist too?” he beamed.

Shingo put away the last clean glass and leaned against the bar.

“I’m a lot of things,” he said smugly.

If Shingo was implying anything in particular, Tsuyoshi had no idea what it was. Shingo didn’t seem as if he was expecting a reply, though. He opened a beer for himself and clinked the bottle against Tsuyoshi’s.

One of the other customers came up to the bar and Shingo poured him a drink. Although Tsuyoshi wasn’t all that sure if anyone was a customer here. He hadn’t seen anyone pay for anything yet, and oddly, they all seemed to know each other.

Shingo turned back to him with a serious face.

“Whatever you’re thinking right now, he’s not a bad guy,” he said without a preamble.

Blinking in confusion, Tsuyoshi turned towards the man who’d just gone back to his table.

“Not him, dummy,”Shingo rolled his eyes.

Tsuyoshi continued to blink and look around until finally, finally it dawned on him who and what Shingo was referring to.

He leaned on the counter and grabbed his bottle with both hands, tugging at the corner of the label that was peeling off.

“I’ve just met him today…” he said. “And I’ve seen him do things which were… not good.”

“That’s the life.” Shingo said, motioning around. “We do what we have to do.”

Tsuyoshi peeled the label off and started folding it absentmindedly.

“He kind of saved me, though,” he added. There was also the part where Tsuyoshi wouldn’t have needed being saved if it hadn’t been for Kimura. Tsuyoshi ignored that part.

“Like I said,” Shingo shrugged, “not a bad guy. So don’t feel guilty about wanting in his pants.”

Tsuyoshi looked up sharply, blushing again.

“I don’t...”

Shingo just waved him off.

“Come upstairs with me and I’ll show you around. And then you can help me with dinner.”

 

Tsuyoshi stepped out of the shower and only then realized his backpack was still strapped to the back of Kimura’s bike. He toweled himself off and pulled his dirty clothes back on, making a mental note to ask Shingo to use his laundry machine. When he left the bathroom, the upstairs hallway was dark and empty. Shingo had probably gone back to the bar. As for Kimura, well, Tsuyoshi didn’t know what to expect anymore.

Dinner had been uneventful and Kimura had ignored Tsuyoshi completely. He talked to Shingo about things and people Tsuyoshi had no idea about, although Tsuyoshi had the impression that they were purposefully vague about certain details. Probably highly illegal details. Kimura was sitting there with his long hair let loose, in a t-shirt that was too big for him, the stretched collar hanging rather miserably and almost exposing his shoulder. And he still looked like the most vividly alive, blazing thing that Tsuyoshi could ever dare to want. Tsuyoshi almost managed to convince himself that he’d dreamed up the kissing, that it’d been nothing more than a hungry phantasm fabricated by his overworked consciousness; except that once or twice he caught Kimura casting him a quick glance and immediately looking away when he thought Tsuyoshi had noticed.

So Tsuyoshi was determined to be extra annoying, digging into his steak like it was his last meal and commenting loudly how delicious it was.

Shingo was quite amused. Kimura didn’t bat an eyelash.

Now, Tsuyoshi defiantly decided he wasn’t going to be concerned with Kimura’s hot and cold routine. It was just this morning – which seemed as far away now as everything else Tsuyoshi had been familiar with, including his sanity, sense of safety and clear lines between right and wrong – that he hadn’t even known Kimura, hadn’t even met him and definitely hadn’t struggled with a crippling mix of emotions towards him. Kimura hadn’t been a part of his life and he wasn’t going to be tomorrow, that much was clear. Sure, one session of mind-blowing sex for all his trouble would have been nice… He groaned internally, reliving the memory of Kimura’s mouth on his and Kimura’s hand in his hair. It would’ve been mind-blowing, that much he was willing to bet.

He stomped down the stairs and found the back entrance that led him straight to the parking lot. This side of the building wasn’t very well-lit, but there was an eerie glow from the bar’s neon signs, a reddish pink haze spilling into the night from above. It was enough for Tsuyoshi to locate Kimura’s motorcycle just where they’d left it, in a corner hugged by the dark wall of trees on one side and a grassy field on the other.

The Harley was a beautiful thing. Alone and away from Kimura’s _don’t touch it_ mantra, Tsuyoshi couldn’t help himself. He ran his hand over the cool metal, then gripped the handles. It wasn’t going to hurt anyone if he just sat on it for a moment, imagined what it’d feel like to ride it by himself.

He was just about to swing his leg over the seat.

“Are you trying to steal my bike?”

The voice made him jump away as though the motorcycle caught fire. Tsuyoshi spun around in panic. Kimura was there, very close, the end of his cigarette glowing orange near his unreadable face. Tsuyoshi had no idea where he’d come from. Perhaps he’d been sitting there all along, hidden in some dark hole, waiting for Tsuyoshi to show up and do something stupid, just so that he could catch him red-handed and scold him. As unrealistic as that thought was, it made Tsuyoshi feel oddly warm.

Kimura exhaled a cloud of smoke and tossed the cigarette to the ground. He took a step forward.

Tsuyoshi automatically stepped back.

Another step, and Tsuyoshi was backed against the bike and Kimura was in his space.

“I wasn’t...” Tsuyoshi started, defensive, but Kimura just reached up and placed his finger on Tsuyoshi’s mouth, effectively shutting him up. For the umpteenth time, Tsuyoshi got a feeling that they were playing a game that he didn’t know the rules of.

“Tsuyoshi,” Kimura said quietly. His face was right there and Tsuyoshi couldn’t look. He was too aware of the finger touching his lips, breathing against it through open mouth. If Kimura slipped it in, Tsuyoshi would suck it, the way he would go easily if Kimura pushed him to his knees now. He felt his cheeks grow warm with a flush and prayed that it was too dark for Kimura to see.

The finger brushed along his lower lip and then Kimura was holding his jaw, tilting his head so that Tsuyoshi had to look at him.

The corner of Kimura’s mouth slowly pulled up into a smirk.

“You never learn, do you?” he whispered.

“No,” Tsuyoshi said. “Yes.”

Kimura kissed him.

This time Tsuyoshi got what he’d wanted all along. The ravishing, the insistence, the merciless hunger of the kiss that Kimura had worn around his mouth all day. It was heady and uncoordinated, Tsuyoshi gasping and Kimura muttering some words against his skin that Tsuyoshi didn’t hear and then they were kissing again and again and Tsuyoshi didn’t know anything else anymore. He tried to hold Kimura, but when he grabbed onto his leather, he got a handful of the gun in its hidden holster underneath and he let go immediately. He flailed his arms until Kimura grabbed one of them and guided Tsuyoshi to wrap it around his neck. It made Kimura purr like a satisfied cat, his own hand on Tsuyoshi’s side, pulling his t-shirt up and stroking his naked skin.

Tsuyoshi’s lips tingled and his breathing was shallow and he wasn’t sure if he hadn’t let out a moan or two. He definitely did when Kimura’s hand dipped to rub his cock through his jeans, finding it half-hard already.

Kimura made a noise of approval and leaned in to work his mouth on Tsuyoshi’s neck. When he stepped back again, he was looking at Tsuyoshi with crazy desperation, both hands on Tsuyoshi’s belt buckle.

“Do you want...”

“Yes,” Tsuyoshi said quickly, looking down to watch as Kimura did away with his belt and impatiently tugged at his waistband, making the button come undone. Tsuyoshi wanted to warn that these were vintage jeans and should be treated accordingly, but he didn’t get much chance, as Kimura roughly yanked them down his thighs together with his boxers. The sudden cool breeze of night air on his dick felt thrilling. Tsuyoshi was still staring down when Kimura touched him again, stroked his erection and picked up where he left, sucking at Tsuyoshi’s throat. Tsuyoshi felt like he was being tasted, devoured, like Kimura was going to swallow him up. It was probably just a trick of his foggy brain, but he couldn’t remember being this turned on by someone in his entire life.

“Come on,” Kimura said, taking hold of Tsuyoshi’s shoulders and twirling him around so that he was facing the motorcycle again. Tsuyoshi reached for the bike with his hands to brace himself, but Kimura pressed against his shoulder blade until Tsuyoshi was going down, down, his chest and forearms on the motorcycle seat.

Briefly, Tsuyoshi wondered how many people had been bent over Kimura’s bike before him. Not that it mattered. Kimura stroked Tsuyoshi’s hair telling him how _good_ he was, reassuring and sucking all the remaining thought from Tsuyoshi’s mind.

“Good boy,” Kimura said, moving to stroke his back. Only now as his body relaxed, Tsuyoshi realized how tense he’d been.

“Let’s just make one thing clear,” Kimura paused and the next thing Tsuyoshi knew was a sharp slap to his ass. He reacted instinctively, too stunned to control himself: with a moan, pushing his hips up for more.

He could picture Kimura’s grin even if he couldn’t see it.

“You.” Kimura spanked him again. “Don’t.” Again. “Touch. My bike.” Two more and Tsuyoshi was squirming and groaning, his brain seemingly gone for good. “Without. Permission.”

They weren’t playful slaps, they stung just the right way, the sensation going straight to his groin. Kimura wasn’t even holding him down; he didn’t need to. Tsuyoshi held onto the bike as if his life depended on it.

With the last slap, Kimura’s hand lingered, rubbing the warm spot and sending a shiver through Tsuyoshi’s whole body.

“You like this?”

“Yes,” Tsuyoshi admitted weakly, no point in denying it. He was bent over a motorcycle, getting spanked in a parking lot where anyone could see them and the thought was as embarrassing as it was arousing.

“God, you’ve got a nice ass.” Kimura pressed his hips against him, grinding with purpose. The rough friction of his jeans on Tsuyoshi’s oversensitive skin burned, but Tsuyoshi found himself aching for more. He bit his lip to stop himself from making more noise. “I’ve wanted this since I first saw you.” Honesty or lust-fueled nonsense, it didn’t matter; not when Tsuyoshi felt Kimura’s dick, big and unbelievably stiff, and he pushed back because he wanted this too, he wanted it so much.

Kimura skimmed his hand down Tsuyoshi’s spine and stopped at the hem of his t-shirt, teasing him with feathery touches of his fingers to the bare skin below.

“Please tell me you’ve got lube,” he said, quite breathless.

“In my backpack...” Tsuyoshi jerked up to reach for it. Kimura firmly pushed him down.

“Stay like this,” he ordered.

With Tsuyoshi’s half-coherent directions in the dark, it must have been the magic of sexual frustration that led Kimura to the lube and a condom in the clutter of Tsuyoshi’s stuff. In the awkward silence that followed, Tsuyoshi, still plastered to the motorcycle seat, could only focus on the quiet sounds: the metallic clink of Kimura’s belt buckle, the zipper of his jeans, the rustle of the condom wrapper, the plastic pop of a bottle being uncapped. He thought of Kimura’s cock and he wanted to see it, wanted to touch it, but he wanted this more.

He shuddered when he felt cold hands on his ass, parting his cheeks. Two slick, wet fingers rubbed at his asshole.

“This okay?” Kimura asked in a low, scratchy voice, as though he’d had some late afterthoughts about consent, or he just liked Tsuyoshi saying _yes yes yes_.

“Yes,” Tsuyoshi whined and then gasped when Kimura pushed two fingers in at once. It felt good, though, stretching him forcefully, Kimura twisting his fingers this way and that way before aiming for his prostate. That left Tsuyoshi to quiver and bite his lip again, but he still couldn’t help the little noises that escaped him.

“You’re so good,” Kimura told him again and like on cue, Tsuyoshi pushed back for more. “Want me to fuck you?”

“Yes, _yes_.” There was no other word he could form, nothing else on his mind. He gripped the edge of the seat to steady himself. He felt more lube poured down his ass crack, so much lube that it was dripping, and the head of Kimura’s cock pressed against him.

“Open up for me, yeah,” Kimura whispered and without further warning, he entered him with one quick thrust that made Tsuyoshi cry out. Tsuyoshi wasn’t sure if his vision blacked out for a moment because he was staring into the dark trees ahead of him anyway. Kimura held himself back, giving him time to recover before he started pushing further in, slow and careful. It felt like so much, and Tsuyoshi felt so full, and yet he wanted even more. He tried spreading his legs wider, but his jeans were still around his knees, restraining his movement.

Bottoming had been a bit hit or miss for Tsuyoshi, which, he’d suspected, had more to do with the skill and consideration of his previous partners than anything else. He hadn’t done it in a long time, his sex life mostly consisting of hand jobs and blowjobs with random hook-ups that could’ve been more but somehow never were. And yet there he was, hooking up with an outlaw biker, whose cock was buried balls-deep in Tsuyoshi’s ass now, and Tsuyoshi knew they could never be more, but that didn’t mean anything – not as long as he was getting this.

He could smell leather and gasoline, and something else, like dirt and metal at the same time, and his lungs were full of it. Kimura was gripping his waist, fucking him faster, breathing loudly, occasionally letting out a groan. Tsuyoshi’s shirt was riding up and at some point Kimura just tugged it up to his armpits, splayed his fingers on Tsuyoshi naked back as if he was claiming him.

“I should’ve stripped you naked,” he growled, and then launched into a breathless, half-moaned, half-muttered stream of filthy promises that made Tsuyoshi shake. “I will. I’ll take you upstairs, lay you out on the bed and I’ll lick and suck every inch of you. You’ll be begging me to fuck you again. I’ll make you come so many times you’ll be begging me to stop.” He punctuated his sentences with hard thrusts, and Tsuyoshi’s brain had short-circuited somewhere around being promised to be fucked again while he was being fucked. “I’ll eat you out until you scream so loud that everyone will hear and they will know. Just like they know now, they all heard you already, they know how needy you are, how much you want me.”

Perhaps it wasn’t the most creative dirty talk Tsuyoshi had ever heard, but it did its job: his cheeks burned with a flush and his erection ached and he wasn’t even trying to be quiet anymore, moaning Kimura’s name and begging him to go faster. If only he could reach for his cock, he knew he was close, so close to orgasm, but he didn’t feel like he could move, desperately clinging to the motorcycle and letting Kimura use him how he wanted.

“Wait, stop,” Kimura suddenly said, his hips coming to a halt. He pulled out, leaving Tsuyoshi panting and empty and dazed. “Come on.” Firm hands wrapped around Tsuyoshi’s shoulders and helped him up to his feet.

Kimura turned them around, so that he was the one leaning against the motorcycle.

“I can’t have you coming all over my bike,” he said with a grin, shaking his long hair back. 

Tsuyoshi needed a moment to comprehend his meaning. When he did, he wanted to tell Kimura how ridiculous he was, but the words died in his throat. Kimura was sitting on the bike sideways, his jeans pooling around his ankles, legs wide and cock hard, one hand wrapped around the base. He patted his thigh with his other hand.

As clumsy as his state of undress made him, Tsuyoshi managed to step in between Kimura’s legs facing away from him, letting Kimura’s grip on his hips guide him back onto his cock. “Fuck yesss,” Kimura hissed when Tsuyoshi lowered himself slowly, grabbing onto Kimura’s legs for support.

It took him a moment to find a comfortable position, but when he started riding Kimura in earnest, Kimura wasn’t talking anymore, just groaning, cursing and uttering some half-formed words of encouragement. Even like this, Tsuyoshi didn’t feel like he had much control. Kimura set the pace, thrusting up into him, faster, and Tsuyoshi did what he could to meet it and not fall off his lap. He wouldn’t fall; Kimura was holding him tight, almost desperate, fingers digging into flesh.

“Fuck, Tsuyoshi, fuck, I need, uh,” and Tsuyoshi did too. One of Kimura’s hands closed around his erection and worked him with quick tugs, not in a place for sophistication, until Tsuyoshi was all noise and tensing muscles and coming, bearing down on Kimura’s cock.

Kimura faltered, another breathless whisper of Tsuyoshi’s name escaping his lips, and then Tsuyoshi felt him buck off the bike. He collapsed, forehead pressing against Tsuyoshi’s neck. Tsuyoshi rocked his hips slower and gentler till everything was gone and he was absolutely boneless.

They disentangled from each other without a word. Kimura chucked the used condom into the bushes and did up his jeans while Tsuyoshi was still pulling his on, looking mostly towards the ground or at his own hands.

“Hey,” he heard and before he knew it, Kimura was in his space, an unlit cigarette in his mouth, straightening Tsuyoshi’s t-shirt and brushing imaginary dust off. “You alright?”

Tsuyoshi nodded. He felt sweaty and overheated.

“This was good. Really good.” Kimura leaned in and kissed him, brief and almost obscenely chaste in comparison to what they’d just done. “I’ll see you later, ‘kay?”

He left, not waiting for a reply. Tsuyoshi still stood in the same place when he heard the click of Kimura’s lighter, echoing through the parking lot.

With a feeling that everything that could happen had already happened and there was nothing to stop him, Tsuyoshi ostentatiously sat on the motorcycle. He didn’t care if Kimura saw him.

Judging by the laughter he heard from the distance, Kimura did see.

 

Kimura had been honest with him up until that point, but Tsuyoshi suspected that the promise to see him later was nothing more than a matter of courtesy. When Tsuyoshi went back inside, Kimura was nowhere to be found. Not that Tsuyoshi searched for him. He didn’t think they had anything to say to each other, so unless Kimura was up for more sex (which Tsuyoshi definitely, certainly, without a doubt was), they could part ways without saying goodbye.

And still Tsuyoshi felt oddly sulky about that. He spent a considerable amount of time sitting on the concrete step in front of the bar by himself, before Shingo came to lock up. Shingo just looked at him, then went inside and came back with two bottles of beer. He gave one to Tsuyoshi and they sat there in companionable silence, drinking and staring into the far away lights. Finally, Tsuyoshi patted Shingo’s shoulder saying goodnight and retreated to the guest room, Kimura, predictably, nowhere in sight.

Tsuyoshi was rolling on the bed from one side to the other, trying to fall asleep, increasingly aware of how late it was and how he was going to be exhausted tomorrow. He couldn’t shut down his buzzing head, though, the events of the whole day reeling on the inside of his eyelids, in increasingly absurd sequences. Finally he just laid on his back, eyes open, staring at the ceiling.

He didn’t hear the footsteps. The creak of the door surprised him, and then it closed with a click and Kimura was standing there in the dark. Tsuyoshi had seen him shirtless before, but now, in nothing but a pair of shorts and only illuminated by the moonlight, he seemed startlingly skinny and young, all bone and sinew, sharp angles and edges. He had that contradictory stance, just a flicker of motion between uncertain and confident. Tsuyoshi couldn’t see the expression on his face, but he knew Kimura was looking at him, even as he pushed the shorts down his hips, dropped them to the floor and slid under the blanket.

“Hey,” he whispered, leaning on his elbow.

“Hey,” Tsuyoshi whispered back.

“Did I wake you up?”

Tsuyoshi shook his head on the pillow.

“Then come here,” Kimura said, although he was the one who rolled on top of Tsuyoshi and started kissing him.

He was different now, thorough and tactile, when before it was all hurry and need. Kimura touched Tsuyoshi everywhere he could reach, stroked his skin, kissed his jaw, his neck and his chest. Tsuyoshi remembered his dirty promises and stirred with arousal, but Kimura didn’t seem to aim for anything. He was slow, almost sleepy, and not all that focused.

And somehow that was enough to make Tsuyoshi’s breath hitch more than once.

“I still want you,” Kimura murmured between the kisses. “I thought I would have you once and that would be enough… But I can’t help it, I can’t… stop...”

“Kimura,” Tsuyoshi broke away, “are you drunk?”

“Maybe.”

“You smell like booze.”

Kimura pulled back enough to look at Tsuyoshi’s face, trying to read it.

“I can go,” he said solemnly.

Tsuyoshi wasn’t sure if Kimura actually looked nervous or if it was the shadows playing tricks on him.

“No, stay,” he said. “Please.”

Kimura lodged on Tsuyoshi’s chest. He made a half-attempt to stroke Tsuyoshi’s cock, but his grip was loose and sluggish. He muttered something incomprehensible into Tsuyoshi’s skin and soon he was snoring away.

Tsuyoshi was racking his brains for a witty remark he could make about that the next morning, but before he managed to piece anything together, he fell asleep too, feeling like he was floating on the waves, Kimura’s hair spilled over his body like seaweed.

 

No witty remark would’ve made a difference. It was well around noon when Tsuyoshi woke up, the sun high in the sky, and Kimura was gone. Not just from the bed, but from the bar, his motorcycle no longer in its spot (which Tsuyoshi was well acquainted with, thank you very much; even through the disappointment, his cheeks grew warm at the memory).

“Omelet?” Shingo asked, placing a plate in front of him when Tsuyoshi sat down at the bar. A cup of coffee was already waiting for him.

There had been two other motorcycles and a car parked outside and three bearded men sat at a table in a corner. Tsuyoshi wasn’t sure if they had been there the previous night, but they didn’t pay attention to him, so, he figured, if they had been there, at least they weren’t privy to his parking lot transgressions.

Shingo, however, was another story. He kept smirking at Tsuyoshi in a way that made Tsuyoshi frantically avoid his eyes.

“Did you sleep well?” Shingo asked, loading Tsuyoshi’s plate with a freshly cooked omelet.

Tsuyoshi nodded into his coffee, adamant not to expand the topic.

Shingo didn’t mention Kimura and Tsuyoshi didn’t ask. There didn’t seem to be a point. Now that he was stuffing himself with the food and thinking more clearly, he decided he was actually relieved. Kimura saved him from a rather awkward morning and a more awkward goodbye. Just because he could still feel the rough imprints of Kimura’s hands on his skin if he concentrated enough, it didn’t mean they were going to be friends.

“So you’re heading out?” Shingo was still looking at him curiously.

“Yes. I’m not entirely sure where I am, though.” He had been too distracted by everything else yesterday to pay any attention to where Kimura was taking him.

Shingo pulled up a map on his phone and showed him which way would lead him back to his original route.

“You know what,” he said, as Tsuyoshi was peering at the screen, “if you don’t have a plan anyway, I could probably use another pair of hands around here. As a matter of fact, I have a vacancy that hasn’t been filled in quite a while.” He tilted his head as if trying to remember something. “Ah, no, there was a girl last month, but she quit after a week when she got shot at.”

Tsuyoshi wondered if he’d heard that right, but then he remembered Kimura aiming his gun at his head just twenty four hours earlier.

“Does that kind of thing happen often?” he asked slowly.

“Oh, that was just a minor misunderstanding. An accident, mostly.” He leaned down and lowered his voice. “The real bad stuff usually happens far from here. I’m just dealing with the consequences. Like you did yesterday.”

That basically meant sewing up bullet wounds would be part of his hypothetical job description, but Tsuyoshi didn’t realize it at the time.

“Can I think about it?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll get to the town, maybe find a place to stay for a couple more days and then I’ll give you a call… Oh.” Tsuyoshi automatically reached to his pocket and then remembered he didn’t have his phone anymore. “Well, I guess I’ll buy a phone first,” he said, crestfallen at the prospect of depleting his already tight budget. He needede a job, whether he was going to take Shingo up on the offer or not.

“Right.” Shingo picked something up from under the counter and placed it in front of Tsuyoshi. “Kimura said to give it to you.”

It wasn’t a new model or anything, but it was a cell phone. Tsuyoshi was staring at it, not sure why he was reluctant to touch it.

“It’s okay, it’s not gonna explode,” Shingo laughed at him.

Tsuyoshi couldn’t help being suspicious. He thought he was rather justified in the circumstances. “Is it stolen?”

Shingo rolled his eyes. “Please. We’re not some petty thieves. It’s a burner phone, but no one has used it, so it’s clean.”

Tsuyoshi raised his eyebrows.

“It’s safe,” Shingo pushed it towards him. “And my number is already in there if you need it. Well, take it or leave it. Literally. I’m busy here, so you can let yourself out.” With that, he disappeared in the back room.

Tsuyoshi glanced at the bikers occupying the table, but they still didn’t seem to pay him any attention.

With a sigh, he pocketed the phone, picked up his backpack and walked out the front door.

 

It was a perfect sunny day. The road was nearly empty. Three cars went by and Tsuyoshi only half-heartedly waved at the last one. It didn’t stop. He was fine walking, though, especially after he passed the trees and the side of the road turned to hard, even surface.

He still felt too surreal to reconcile the day before yesterday and now, so similar except for what came in between. He was still on the road, he still lacked direction and a plan for the future further than tomorrow. He wasn’t sure what had changed, if anything had changed at all, and yet he couldn’t quite shake off the feeling that he was walking away from something that could have been an answer. To a question. He didn’t know the question. He didn’t really know a lot.

He knew what a Harley engine sounded like when it was approaching.

He didn’t turn around at first. It was most probably one of the bikers from the bar, going this way, and Tsuyoshi definitely wasn’t going to try and hitch rides with any more bikers. But it sounded familiar, way too familiar. He looked over his shoulder.

And he stopped and looked, because it was a sight.

There were three of them, all in black, all in leather; straight backs and firm grips on the handles. And the air of unattainability, that one thing that had grasped Tsuyoshi from the beginning. Kimura was riding in the middle, but as they were getting closer, he accelerated and moved to the front. Tsuyoshi watched him get nearer. He wasn’t slowing down.

Kimura passed him and Tsuyoshi didn’t turn to see him go. He kept looking at the other two riders, until they passed him too. Smiling wistfully to himself, he turned back on his way, kicking the dirt under his feet.

He could still hear a running engine.

Kimura stopped ahead of him. He was staring at the sky, not a care in the world, as if he was waiting for a traffic light change, except that there was no traffic and no lights; only Tsuyoshi.

Tsuyoshi started walking fast, just to give in and break into a jog.

He was panting when he reached the motorcycle.

“Hey,” Kimura said, nonchalantly lowering his sunglasses to glance at him over their frame. “You need a ride?”

Tsuyoshi’s gaze immediately traveled to Kimura’s crotch.

Kimura didn’t miss it.

“I wasn’t even going for a double meaning!” he protested, but he was losing a fight with a smile twisting at his lips. “Get on or get lost.”

He had an extra helmet for Tsuyoshi this time.

Tsuyoshi slid his backpack off his shoulders and hurriedly strapped it to the back of the bike.

“But if you do need something else to ride on...” Kimura turned around to wink at him.

Tsuyoshi winced as he straddled the seat. His ass was still sore and this was going to be a nightmare.

He grabbed Kimura’s waist and that, at least, felt absolutely right.

“So where are we going?” Tsuyoshi asked.

Kimura revved the engine.

“Where do you want to go?”

xxx

**Author's Note:**

> ...and it ended with some bad jokes and cliches. honestly though. if it feels like some things were left unfinished and some threads untied, that is correct. I've done way way too much world-building for this one fic. which does not mean I'm doing a series. but I do have ideas. there's still a couple of things I'd have to figure out first, like, where the fucking fuck this fic takes place because I have no idea. it's like some fantastical remix of California (because SoA) and Japan (because, duh), and it makes no sense. I also have no idea for the name of Kimura's MC - and I refuse to call it SMAP - which you might have guessed, Nakai and Goro are also members of. and that's probably all the members. RIP Mori. it's like the only MC in the world consisting of queer Japanese men.
> 
> other things missing from this fic:  
> \- the conversation Kimura has with Shingo sometime between sex with Tsuyoshi and going to Tsuyoshi's room, while he's been helping himself to Shingo's booze and considering his poor life choices  
> \- the full count of Kimura's tattoos, of which he has more. there'd be a big piece on his back, and one more on his hip because I'm weak like that  
> \- the identity of Shingo's mystery lover who is also Kimura's ex (you might've g-g-guessed, though)  
> \- an angry Nakai, wondering where his vice-president has fucked off to when all he had was a simple job of shooting three guys
> 
> and I do have more. but I will stop now. ~~just in case I do end up writing more in this universe.~~


End file.
